


The Transport

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:32:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's body is just transport. John sees it differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Transport

**Author's Note:**

> TW - drug use, self-loathing, negative body-image

**Kindergarten:**

Sherlock notices the minute he enters the classroom. He is different: taller, skinnier, smarter. He smiles tentatively at the young boy sitting next to him. The boy laughs and screams, “Your hair is freaky!” The other children pick him apart. They take each piece of him and fashion it into a weapon until even his body cannot be trusted. 

**High School:**

Sherlock’s sharp angular body becomes interesting, apparently. He notices the lascivious looks he gets. The classmates who had wielded his body at him like a weapon now want to claim, mark, own a piece of it. Sherlock wants to point out how illogical that is. They had spent years repulsed by his difference, and now they crave it? Sherlock learns quickly that his classmates do not respond well to his logic. They get angry. They sneer. They take what they want anyway.

**Uni:**

Sherlock learns to wield the weapon his body has become. He takes ownership and vows that no one will ever use it against him again. He is smug in the knowledge that he can use it against others. It never fails to get him what he wants. He knows what his dealer thinks every time Sherlock licks across his soft, plush lips. He does it slowly, knowingly just to get the right reaction. The reaction that tells him, he will be getting blessedly high tonight. He lets himself be pushed to his knees on the cold, hard ground in the alley. Feels the pulse of warm blood filling the flesh pressed against his tongue. He relaxes and lets the heat slip further down his throat. Who cares? It’s just transport anyway, and he needs the cocaine. He ran out two days ago and can barely function for the tremors coursing through his body. When he swallows the last salty stream, Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. The dealer chuckles coldly as he throws the baggie at Sherlock. He turns on his heel and leaves Sherlock kneeling on the dank ground, but Sherlock doesn’t care. He rips open the bag eagerly and breathes in the intoxicating chemical. Too needy to get home and dilute it properly, he settles for snorting it tonight. His whole body sags with relief as he drifts farther away from reality. Disconnects the tenuous hold that still anchors him to the ugly baggage of his transport. He is free. He exists entirely in his own mind. This is where Sherlock really lives. He can finally function. Here, he can shine. 

**Now:**

John is kissing him. Gently. So, so gently, and it feels like drowning. Sherlock’s firm grasp on his self-control is floundering. It is the tentative flick of John’s tongue that breaks him. It swipes softly against his lip. John’s desire is written in the hard, wanting planes of his body, but his touch is a question. John is asking, not taking. John does not plunder or steal or claim. He gives, and Sherlock cannot hold back the waves crashing over him. He shakes and shakes until he feels like he will fly apart. His eyes burn and he realizes with embarrassing certainty that there are hot, wet tracks streaking down his cheeks. John is nestled into his neck while his hands stroke soothingly down Sherlock’s arms. He is holding Sherlock together without caging him in, and there cannot possibly be a word for this feeling.

Sherlock knows millions of words in many languages, but he cannot think of a single one to give to John. His, John, who is not repulsed by Sherlock’s different-ness or compelled to own a piece of him. John who is not looking for a personal benefit from this exchange. John whose mere existence is a miracle that should surely have torn the universe apart for all his contradictions. John is hard, unyielding, fierce like a soldier. He barks orders and takes control when Sherlock takes too many risks or forgets to sleep. But he is also soft, forgiving, soothing like a doctor. He protects and he heals. This is how John loves him. In two seemingly-irreconcilable parts. The ferocity of his feelings are tempered by the extreme care John takes in showing them.

For once, Sherlock does not have an answer. Cannot think of a single thing to say, so he slots his mouth firmly against John’s. He kisses his answer into the lines of lips and the curve of his tongue. Kisses it along his jaw. Nips it into the delicate flesh of John’s ear. He licks the answer down John’s throat and bites it into his collarbone. He sucks it into the soft pebbled flesh of John’s sensitive nipples and breathes it into the ragged hot skin of his scar. John sighs and whines and moans and gives himself over to Sherlock’s ministrations. Sherlock’s breath hitches in his throat as he recognizes the vulnerability in this. He shudders as he realizes he is helplessly lost.

To him, bodies are transport. A commodity, like a train ride. An exchange of goods in order to get from point A to point B. Sherlock’s body is a commodity he has been bartering for years. He haggles and trades, but never gives. A blinding moment of clarity shatters his thoughts as John swipes his hands lazily across Sherlock’s back. He is looking down at Sherlock with eyes full of affection and warmth. Sherlock smiles back, a wide genuine smile that feels foreign on his face.

His body is not a train ride. It is a dance. A steady two-step. A give and take. He never noticed because he never had a partner before. A person willing to give as much as take, to lead as well as follow, to waltz. The clarity breathes air back into his lungs and he can finally speak. “I am yours. ” he says softly but clearly. John’s eyes go wide with arousal and an instinctive desire to possess. Sherlock pulls John closer and breathes him in. He is suddenly overcome with the need to know that John wants him. He knows that John thinks he is brilliant. He knows that John values his mind and the Work, but now that he has felt this, he needs to know that John wants his body too. And that in itself is a revelation. “John, please?” he begs, and that is all that John needs. His lips are feverish against Sherlock’s and his hands chart every inch of Sherlock’s body as he growls “oh God, yes.” into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock gives and is claimed. He possesses and receives. An outpouring of love shared between two beating hearts pressed together beneath sweaty, sliding skin.

And if everything stills for a moment as John slides fully inside of Sherlock. If it grows silent as John stares down at the man beneath him and can’t help whispering, “Gorgeous. You are so fucking beautiful, love.” If Sherlock lets a few small tears fall as the words wash over him, neither man mentions it. Neither daring to shatter the perfection of two bodies moving together in perfect synchronicity...


End file.
